Detour (An Off Track Records Novel) Read online

  Detour

  Kacey Shea

  Copyright © 2017 by Kacey Shea Books LLC

  All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect is appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover Design: Marisa, Cover me Darling – www.covermedarling.com

  Photography: Marisa Shor – www.covermedarling.com

  Cover Model: Haley Loan

  Editing: Brenda Letendre, Write Girl Editing Services – www.facebook.com/writegirlediting

  Proofreading: Christina Weston & Erin Toland

  Formatting: Stacey Blake, Champagne Formats – www.champagneformats.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Thank you

  Caught in the Flames Excerpt

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by Kacey Shea

  Author Links

  To Joe, my original Ugly Guy. Thank you for supporting my ever evolving dreams. There’s no one I’d rather do this life together with than you.

  I love you.

  P.S. He doesn’t read my books so it’ll be entertaining to see how long before he notices I dedicated a book to him!

  Why does a young adolescent boy spend endless hours learning to play electric guitar, practicing covers of Nirvana, Metallica, and Green Day until he’s perfected them just so? Is he chasing a life of fortune or fame? No. Is it for the music? Maybe a little, but still not the main reason. No. He does it for the ladies. That’s the number one reason, and any little shit who tells you otherwise is lying. Sure, the music, fame, money, and recognition, it all plays into the equation soon enough. But the real motivation, the reason most of us ever even started was for one thing and one thing only. The chance that someday flocks of gorgeous women would gladly line up at the chance to become well acquainted with our cock.

  In that respect, I’ve made my teenage self wildly proud.

  We’re between tours, enjoying some well-earned downtime at our place in LA. Today is Tasty Tuesday, an endearment I’ve proudly bestowed upon every Tuesday while we’re between tours. I love Tasty Tuesdays because, when we aren’t on the road, I’m free to hit up a contact or two from my proverbial Little Black Book for some afternoon delight. Today I opt for double trouble—newbie LA beauties who moved here just six months ago after graduating from some Pacific Northwest junior college.

  Actresses. Code for waitress, barista, and sometimes stripper, depending on the girl. These two are green enough that I’d be surprised if they’re working the clubs just yet. Though, one could argue coming over to fuck a rock star in the middle of the day only one week after meeting in a bar could be construed as selling out. Well, we’re not technically fucking. Yet. Only standing in the middle of the media room, engaged in some kissing and heavy petting before the opening credits have had a chance to roll through.

  But these women aren’t innocent. No, these girls know exactly where this is headed and they can’t wait.

  “Mmm, you’re so hot. Can I suck your dick?” The blonde one purrs into my ear while her friend nibbles my neck on the opposite side.

  Uh? Isn’t that the point of me bringing you back here? Instead, I go with the anticipated response, “Yeah, babe. Suck me.” I kiss her hard and weave my fingers into her platinum locks. Work the lips. Suck her tongue. Nip the lip. She’s panting when I pull her head back a few inches and push her down to her knees. Her fingers go straight to my belt. See, not innocent at all.

  “Your turn, sweet girl.” I twist and lower my chin to the friend.

  False lashes blink a few times and reveal tempting jade irises. Cherry lips. Her inky black hair falls forward in her face and her pink tongue darts out to wet her lips. I glance down, just as the blonde shoves my jeans down my legs and my cock springs forward, nearly slapping her in the face. With my left hand resting on blondie’s head, I revel in the way her wet mouth and soft hands expertly work my hard-on. I use my other hand to wrap around the friend’s neck and tug her to my side.

  She’s petite and I’m tall, so she only comes to my chest. I lean down to capture her lips in a kiss, which proves problematic when trying to keep my dick aligned with the blonde’s mouth. Doesn’t work. We need to move this party horizontal. “Couch time, ladies. Clothes off.”

  They grin at my demand and begin a little strip show. I relax into the soft leather, eyes transfixed on the performance taking place in front of the screen. I shed my remaining clothes much faster, but never drop my gaze from the dancing duo.

  God damn, I love women.

  Hips gyrate to a slow, imaginary rhythm. These chicks are beautiful in the way women envy, with the thin body, huge fake tits, and enough makeup to hide any imperfection. They’re as pretty as any other model or actress in LA, but these girls are nobodies. No connections, no training in acting, and they think they can ride their looks to a big break. Pretty young shells just vying for a slice of fame amongst thousands, and I’m no idiot. They see me as their fast track meal ticket to the good life.

  It’s something I’ve grown accustomed to, but it wasn’t always this way. I’ve always done well with the ladies, but I used to have to work for it. That was before our band went on tour with Justin Hill, over a year ago. Since then, Three Ugly Guys have been flying high on success. After Justin, we did another short tour before settling in LA to record our next album. It’s unreal, going from wanting everything, working hard, and having almost nothing, to suddenly having anything I could ever want. Money, recognition, pussy. I have it all.

  I nod to blondie and palm my erection in my right hand. “Kiss her.”

  They kiss, sensual, slow, and I groan as their fingers skirt and skim across the other’s body. The perfect combination of erotica and tease. Licking. Sucking. Touching. This show’s all for me and these two deserve a standing ovation. Maybe they really have what it takes to make it in LA.

  They start to finger each other, and that’s when I tire of the sidelines. “Enough. Come here. I want that pussy.” My demand only heightens their arousal and the room fills with the smell of sex.

&n
bsp; “Who wants a ride first?” I say and when the black-haired beauty bites her lip, a momentary hesitation, I grab the hand of the blonde and tug her onto my lap. She straddles me and I grab the foil wrapped latex at my side.

  “You don’t have to wear one. I’m safe,” she coos, reaching out to stop me from opening the package.

  Ha! My mama didn’t raise no fool. I don’t mess around with sexually transmitted diseases or unplanned pregnancies. Even if she’s telling the truth, I sure as hell don’t need to be supporting a gold digging baby mama. I slide the condom on and catch the glimmer of disappointment that clouds her expression. Not for long, though. No, I’ll have her screaming with bliss in minutes. My fingers work her over, priming her, and then I slam her down onto my lap. “Fuck.” With my other hand I weave my fingers into the friend’s short hair, tugging her until our lips lock in a passionate kiss.

  It doesn’t take long before the friend sheds her inhibitions and is as turned on as the blonde bouncing up and down my cock.

  “Make me come, Trent,” the black-haired beauty whispers right before she licks and sucks my earlobe and sends a shot of lust darting through my body.

  “Sit on my face,” I demand and scoot my ass down to the edge of the seat cushion. She stations herself over my face and my lips gladly lock on to her shaved pussy. Our new position gives blondie more room to ride my cock and she squeals when I meet her movements with thrusts of my own.

  This is the good life.

  “Oh, yes! Fuck me, Trent! Oh, Trent!” Blondie screams while Jet Black straddles my face. She’s limber, using the back of the sofa to keep her balance while grinding her cooch over my eager lips. I love eating pussy. I sincerely do. And I’m fucking good at it. I’ve never met a clit I didn’t like. But the one on my lap is extra mouthy. Her high pitch squeals collide against the mantra of “Fuck, Trent,” the one I’m tonguing won’t stop with.

  Oh, shut the fuck up. The noises women make when they think they’re being sexy are fucking annoying. The pitchy screams. The whiny moans. The pouty baby talk. Sure, it made me hard the first twenty times—like it’s some twisted compliment or badge of honor for women who look and sound like porn stars to beg me to fuck them.

  But this. This is distracting. In fact, I can almost feel my cock going soft at the sound. What the fuck is wrong with me? They continue the exaggerated squeals and I’m in serious danger of not keeping Mr. Trent up. Yeah, I named my dick, and I named him after myself because we’re awesome. Plus, it sounds official, and he’s the boss. A boss who’s taking an unauthorized vacation. Shit.

  I grab the hips of little miss Cirque du Soleil and pull her from my face. “Your turn for a ride.” I wink. She grabs the back of the couch for balance, a giddy smile on her lips, and I turn to lay on the couch long ways.

  Of course, blondie’s still screeching like a banshee while expertly maintaining her gyrations, but I’m about to rectify that. “Come here, sweet girl. I’m gonna make you come with my mouth.” I tug the blonde’s hips forward until she’s hovering over my face, and then bring her to my lips. I moan into her pussy when my cock’s squeezed by the tight wetness of her friend. Yes, that’s it.

  My fingers work her clit, playing along the sensitive bare skin like the most precious of instruments. My other hand alternates between slapping both of their asses and holding the friend in place while I thrust up and pound into her pussy. It squeezes like a vice and I know I’m hitting just the right spot.

  Blondie begins that scream again, but this time I reach up and shove two fingers into her mouth, holding them there for her to suck—and to shut her the fuck up. My ears fill with moans, slaps, licks, and wet kisses, and it’s a heady combo. So much better.

  Mr. Trent approves.

  The door clicks open, a stream of daylight pouring into an otherwise darkened room. A throat clears behind us but I’m not stopping now. With Thing One and Thing Two so close to falling over the edge of orgasmic bliss and myself not far behind, I can’t chance a glare over the shoulder to tell our cleaning crew to come back later to vacuum. At least, I think it’s cleaning day. God, who cares. The only sucking going down in this room is my mouth on pussy.

  Speaking of life’s delicacies. I suck, groan, and flick my tongue over her clit, and am rewarded with a flood of juices. Her screams aren’t faked or forced this time, they’re every bit full of the orgasm that shakes her entire body.

  “Trenton William Donavan. You put your pants on right this minute.”

  Shit.

  Nothing kills a boner like Mom walking in—fucking shit—and I was so close, too. Blondie turns, meets my mom’s glare, and rushes to wrap her hands modestly over her tits and crotch. Ouch. In her haste she misses and slaps my face.

  The one on my dick is still chasing her release and doesn’t seem to care we have a visitor. Not that I should be surprised. She was the one who gave me her digits with the promise of a threesome.

  “Come on, ladies. Off you go.”

  I slap the ass of the one still hovering over my face and she scrambles off the couch.

  “Trenton, I expected so much more from you.” Mom tsks and shakes her head.

  I reach for my pants to pull up over my hips. “I don’t know why,” I tease over my shoulder. “I’m assuming you interrupted my fun for more than just a scolding.” I shove my semi erect junk inside and zip up my jeans before turning to meet her stare.

  “Bedo’s on his way. Band meeting downstairs in fifteen.” She blows out a breath and shakes her head, taking in the two women who are slowly righting themselves into a state of dress. When she meets my gaze again her eyes are hard, disappointed. But what’s new?

  “Fifteen minutes. That’s enough time . . . Can you come back?” I bat my eyes and hold my hands together in mock prayer. She rolls her eyes because she knows I’m only joking—mostly.

  “Trent, baby,” Blondie sidles up to my right and strokes her nails from my bare chest to the front of my jeans. She wouldn’t know I am joking and thinks she has a shot at getting back at it. My dick kicks painfully against the tight fabric of my pants with the tease.

  “Trenton, so help me God, I will not wait outside while you get a blow job!” My mom scolds, and I almost feel a sliver of guilt. Sometimes I wonder how she puts up with my shenanigans. How she always has. She’s cool, a great mom, and I get my sense of humor from her. Maybe that’s how she survives in a houseful of idiot musicians.

  “Come on, you’re no fun.” I wink and my mother’s hard glare softens as if she’s considering a smile. “What kind of mother dooms her son to a severe case of blue balls?”

  This time she lets loose her patronizing grin with a bark of laughter. “This mother does. Now say good-bye to your friends and get downstairs.” With that she turns and walks out of the room, leaving the door open and calling over her shoulder, “If I have to come back here I’m kicking you out!”

  “Mom?” The blonde one scoffs, shoving her arms through the sleeves of her dress.

  The friend places her hands on her hips, confusion knit across her brow. “Wait, you live with your mom? I thought you were rich. Aren’t you like almost thirty?”

  Twenty-eight, and I don’t look that old. Bitch. It takes all my self-restraint to not roll my eyes this time.

  “All right, you heard Mommy. Playtime is over.” I kiss the lips of each woman, a sweet, sensuous good-bye to ease the push out the door. Plus, I’ve learned it does wonders at keeping future cat fights or blowups from occurring when I run into them later on with a different woman on my arm. Which I most certainly will. It’s just how they work, all of them. These women think they’re different, special, or owners of magical pussy, when in fact they’re all the same. Hungry for money, fame, the lifestyle, and willing to do anything to get there.

  For a second, a shred of sadness seeps into my being, wishing things were different. Wishing there was more. Stupid.

  Probably just my blue balls disappointed at the lack of release.

  I have n
o clue what’s so damn important that Bedo called an emergency meeting and Mom had to drag me away from my daytime extracurriculars, but now I’m pissed I didn’t get to finish. Gathered in the basement with Sean and Austin, I’m nursing a killer case of blue balls while our manager barks into his cell like he has all the time in the world.

  We rented this property for the band to live in once our second album went double platinum. The four story hillside home in the Hollywood Hills is our oasis away from the Arizona desert we called home our entire lives. For so many years we struggled, touring out of a cheap rental van, before everything started to fall into place. Pieces of a puzzle we took years to build, all of a sudden just fit. Hard work, love of the music we created, and a fraction of luck landed us here in this place.

  And I fucking love it.

  It’s big enough we have all the privacy we desire and then some, and after converting the basement into a musician’s dreamland, we never have to leave or even get dressed to practice. Notably convenient after a long night of partying or fucking, which I often enjoy.

  We’re leaving for our next tour, a three-month trek across the country, in only another week so my guess is Bedo’s here to go through last minute logistics. We’ve been practicing and planning all spring and we’d be one hundred percent ready if it weren’t for the slight problem of finding a permanent drummer. Okay, it’s a big problem. We can’t seem to keep one for the long haul, and it’s a cloud of gloom hanging over the band. We decided to let one of our roadies stand in for now, but I know Bedo’s not thrilled with the decision. And sure, it’d be nice to fill the spot, but I’m in no rush to make a rash decision and end up with someone who doesn’t jive with our band. I don’t know about Sean and Austin, but I’m anxious to get on the road again. Even if it is with our roadie filling in on drums.

  Bedo pulls a chair over and flips it backward before straddling the seat in his red polyester pants. He slides the gold rimmed shades from his eyes and pockets them in the front of his T-shirt. “Here’s the deal. I’m not gonna beat around the bush. We’ve got a problem, or an opportunity—depends on how you see it. The label wants a woman on board to amp up the sex appeal for all genders and sexual orientations.” He pauses to pop his knuckles. “They want a woman drummer.”